*Rayet belongs to the amazing @non-human-whumper
Mortimus doesn’t remember the last time that his hands ached this badly. Even in the soft, leather bound gloves, his grip is so weak as it grips the doorknob that it takes too many tries to get it open. He keeps trying to press his shoulder weight into it as he fumbles with the knob, mumbling little pleas like that would make opening it easier.
When the door finally does swing open, he almost flings himself inside and slams the door shut behind him to keep the cold air from coming in. Heat doesn’t reach this part of the building well, and while Mortimus doesn’t want to add to that, he appreciates what warmth there is. He pulls open his coat and sheds it into the chair, before trying to pull off his scarf. He can’t hook his fingers underneath it, and ends up palming at it.
After a weekend at Rayet’s, in a smaller home with more people, the manor feels too big, and empty. It’s nothing if not a reminder that they live in different worlds. It’ll be weeks before he has the time to go back - why does Rayet have to live so far away? - and the loneliness is settling in. Sure, there’s Josiah, and Tiny, and even Miles was here, but it wasn’t the same. He misses the hugs, and the smell of herbs and hot chocolate, and - if he keeps thinking about it he’ll make himself sick.
Standing in the kitchen, only lit from the outside’s snow on the ground and overcast sky, Mortimus takes a few moments to breathe. Being here isn’t... good, but it’s normal. Still not bothering to take off the gloves [it will be agony by the time he finally does, he would rather prolong it], he clumsily takes off his sunglasses and puts them down on the counter. There’s no one to hide from here, people used to him even if they don’t like it.
“Josiah?” Mortimus calls throughout the too quiet manor. “Are you home?”
He wanders through the manor, leaving behind his winter gear. By the time he’s done wandering the halls, figuring that he isn’t going to get a response - he must be out again - Mortimus is standing in front of the door to the basement. A small, unobtrusive door.
He wonders if anyone’s fed Miles since he’s been gone.
It only takes two tries to open the basement door. The heat of the manor, minor though it may be, is enough to help his finger coordination.
His eyes adjust to the darkness as he gently walks down the concrete steps to the basement. In his head he counts them off [one.. two.. three] until he reaches the eleventh step. He carefully flicks on the light from the wall with his arm, and the bare bulb blinds him. He can only imagine the pain that shoots through Miles, stuck in the dark behind the bars. Not great, if the hiss of pain is anything to go by.
He’s been here longer than everyone else, body wracked with the crooked scars of Mortimus’ shaky knife work. Josiah likes using him for the dirty work, saying that the shakes make it worse for their guests. He’s thin, and pale, and shivering. There is no heat in the basement, and huddled under the thin blanket in a corner, it’s a wonder the man hasn’t completely succumbed to the cold.
“Hello, Thorson,” Mortimus says, stepping close to the bars. He kneels down, face calm even if his stomach churns. He hates this. “How was your weekend?”
